


Next Summer's Seeds

by YellowShapedBox



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Non-Canon Relationship, Pragmatic Idealism, Thalmor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-15
Updated: 2014-10-31
Packaged: 2018-02-17 13:53:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2311943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YellowShapedBox/pseuds/YellowShapedBox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Widamia, a daughter of Bruma County through and through, desired nothing less than to be party to a war between Talos and Tiber Septim. But Idolaf Battle-Born had it right, in the end: sooner or later, we all must take a side. And she took the side of Thorald Gray-Mane.</p><p>The intelligence she gleans from the Thalmor Embassy, however, makes hash of her tentative allegiance in the fight and leaves her determined to end the war quickly, bloodlessly, and in a manner that looks to the future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Waking the Sleeping Giant

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I've been juggling between chapter and chapter and between work and work - marvelously liberating thing to do, when you know the beginning, middle and end - and I couldn't resist jumping the gun with the first chapter of this one. After all, Next Summer's Seeds and Tenacity of Lathenil, while certainly part of the same continuity, work just as well as stand-alone pieces.
> 
> Enjoy.

Say what you will about “milk-drinkers” - Widamia was half-sure the term was a slur against Imperials in particular, but she couldn't see Etienne Rarnis aspiring to Sovngarde – whatever one may say against them, they will, at least, put up with a thorough healing after being nigh-hamstrung by a troll.

Short though his stay in the Embassy had been, it wasn't as though the Breton needed more scars to boast of.

Assured that she'd done what she could, she turned the golden light on herself.

“Don't know how you managed to get to me if you never heard the basics of monster-hunting,” Etienne babbled, sounding as though he was going for more of a grouse. “Everyone knows you use a shield to fight trolls. I thought I saw one on you, but...”

But Malborn was dead by the time she'd even ascertained where his voice had come from. They'd cut his throat and cast him into the corner like a pile of old rags, and his eyes... she didn't have much time, but what she had, she'd used to give him some dignity in death, the dragon insignia on the shield at his side. His quiet courage was the only thing the Thalmor couldn't take from him.

“It's all right,” she said distantly. “I didn't know what I was doing with the thing anyway.”

Etienne looked as though he was about to make further inquiries, but then changed his mind. “A lot of light in here. Either there's a way out, or we can break through to one.”

“Glad to hear it,” said Widamia, focusing very hard on the walls of the icy cave, the better to eclipse the faint accusation in the Bosmer's sightless eyes. “Think we're headed... that way.”

They ascended. As a draft began to blow in, Etienne sank to his knees. Staring, trembling. Disbelieving. Widamia held him tightly by the shoulder, kept alert for pursuers, and they stayed at the threshold a long time.

“You'll come visit me in Riften, I hope?” said Etienne at last.

“Hmm?” Widamia had barely given herself room to think a course in the Embassy. “Yes. Yes, I'll definitely come to Riften. And...”

She looked out on the snowy wood, imagining it an all-consuming, blinding white that resolved bit by bit into colors, and forms, and landmarks, and finally paths...

“I hope you'll meet me in Whiterun, when the war is over.” The memory of her words made them almost an intonation. “When the war is over, and not a moment before.”

“You really _are_ an Imperial scout,” said Etienne in wonder. “I mean, that's how you're dressed, and you've got the nose, but I didn't think...”

“You thought we _liked_ the Dominion?” asked Widamia gently. The attitude was common enough here in Skyrim that bewilderment had long since faded. “Etienne, I grew up in Jerall Quarries – Bruma County – and put it this way: if ever you go there you'll see an awful lot of Imperial banners hung in pride of place over mantlepieces – bookshelves – surfaces generally. Yes, oath-bound to the Empire. Not for the best reasons initially, but I think it the right choice. Whiterun?”

“All right. Whiterun, after the war.”

 

 

“I could use some mead,” Widamia admitted over the Sleeping Giant's counter. “With currant infusion, if you have it.”

Orgnar snorted. “No, Imperial, we do not.”

Widamia thought the undertone was that her choice of strong spirits somehow made her a milk-drinker; regardless, she gratefully accepted a cheap mead. “I wonder, why did you name this place the Sleeping Giant? I thought the giants were on the other side of the river?”

“Everyone thinks I'm the innkeeper,” muttered Orgnar. “Delphine's idea; _she_ owns the place. Giants sleeping look peaceful as babes, she says. Wouldn't want to be the fool who found that for myself, mind.”

“Then I trust she wouldn't object if I woke her?” said Widamia, feeling a vindictive smile creep on her.

“No need,” came Delphine's weary voice behind her. “I suppose you wanted a room?”

Widamia had barely shut the false panel at the top of the stairs before she began.

“Well, I got in. But they twigged to me soon after, and I had to fight, which would have made a change from dealing with Tullius, only, only it meant I left a trail of dead Thalmor all throughout the Embassy, and I'll bet that skooma-sucking cat in the kitchen -”

Delphine closed her eyes in exasperation. “Spare me the play-by-play. Did you get any information?”

“Precious little,” said Widamia quietly, “and the best of it none too timely. But Malborn died for it, Delphine. He gave years to the bastards that he might have lived free. We've got to use what we gained, every inch.”

She laid out the intelligence she'd gained on the table. “First – we have to get to Riften. As soon as we can, because you were wrong, Delphine, you're not the last of the Blades. There's another, and the Thalmor have his scent there. And once that's done... we do whatever we can to end the war. As quickly and cleanly as possible.”

“Not the last... you mean...? Never mind. I'm asking what you've learned about the dragons.”

Right, yes. The dragons. Bringers of the apocalypse, just like everything unpleasant in the world since the first time the Empire let a fort go to seed.

The way Widamia saw it, the worst thing a dragon could do was bring your house down on your head. Dragons didn't make you choose between land and gods, cause childhood friends to cross swords. Dragons didn't keep torture chambers. But if Delphine needed so badly to take up a purpose for the Blades that existed before anyone had even heard of the Thalmor, then Widamia was glad she chose dragons over a new Interregnum with Widamia at the center.

“The Thalmor don't know much more than we do.” As seemed usual for such allegations. There was cause and to spare against the Dominion without accusing them of destroying Vvardenfell or blotting out the moons; all the embellishment did was to weigh dread around one's neck. “But they think Esbern does. We'll... _I'll_ gather my things, make for Whiterun. I can get my sleep in the carriage, but tell me what you can now, because I'll do this alone. For what it's worth, you've got the only genuine compliment Elenwen is capable of giving: she's scared shitless of you. But they were scared of Rynandor the Bold, too. If it goes wrong, I can't have them get both of you.”

“The old coot's alive.” Delphine shook her head, a gleam in her eye for all that the rest of her face was stony. “He'll know about the dragons, all right. Oh, but... if you think _I'm_ paranoid... you _may_ have some trouble getting Esbern to trust you. Tell him to remember the 30th of Frostfall. He'll know what it means." And she turned back to survey her map of dragons' graves.

Widamia opened the chest where Delphine had put her things. Amazing how much of this stuff was superfluous, when you got down to the bone...

Oh, gods. Malborn. The shield. The Imperial crest. She'd implicated the Empire in the attack on the Embassy, for nothing more than a moment of sentimentality.

“Delphine,” she said tentatively. “I've done something... very stupid. I've got to get to Castle Dour at once. You... the Thalmor say they need overwhelming force _and_ the most careful preparation to deal with you. _And_ that they'll have to catch Esbern off guard.”

Delphine chuckled darkly. “I'll bet.”

“Then I think I'll have to trust you. I guess Esbern will be quicker to listen to you, at least.”

“All right. Do...” Delphine sighed with exasperation. “Do whatever you have to do. I won't drop my end, and if I meet Thalmor on the way, so much the better. But – confessed idiot or not – come back to Riverwood as soon as you can. Esbern won't be happy until he meets the Dragonborn.”

Having shoved the rest of her belongings into her pack, Widamia retrieved the four Thalmor records from the table; it was plain Delphine had no further interest in them.

But instead of returning to the legitimate part of the Inn, she found herself walking solemnly toward the little table on the opposite side of the wall.  _The Rise and Fall of the Blades._ Her hand hovered over the book for a long moment – but no. This was Delphine's by right if anything was.

But she knew, all the same, that it would never occur to this brusque, hardened survivor to give Malborn even a small part of the tribute he had given her vanished order.


	2. Personal Review

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote most of this chapter well in advance, but what with the 30th of Frostfall come and gone and me still floundering on chapter six of Tenacity, I figured now was the time to finish and post it.
> 
> Warning for idealism added. Judging by the good genfic I've read in this fandom, idealism kind of needs a warning. :p

Hadvar, in the barroom at the Sleeping Giant on her departure, had been two sheets to the wind and sullenly, steadily hoisting a third. But without that for a consideration, Widamia felt she could have kissed him. His aimless griping, whatever its value outside Widamia's wild hopes, had at least done something to restore her poise as she walked up the steps of Solitude to face her commanders. 

At the door to the Castle, she found herself taking a quick pace to the side: a rather burly Dunmer crashed the doors open, looking highly upset.

“Are you all--”

But he had stormed away before she could finish.

Inside, Widamia found Legate Rikke looking down at her map with a clenched jaw. “Madam Legate. Auxiliary Widamia reporting. Who was that?”

“Civilian,” Rikke said. “Confused us for the Haafingar Watch. Happens more often than you'd think. Anyway, Tullius is probably down at the East Empire warehouse, but he wants a good reliable messenger and you'll do. Better go see him.”

“What's he doing there?” Widamia would have waited for him to leave the war room, but it was an unusual circumstance that he wasn't there to begin with.

Rikke gave Widamia a sizing-up sort of look before she answered. “Requisition of writing materials. The Thalmor Embassy's been burned down, so they'll be downstairs in force within the week. Not now - you might have noticed the legionnaires posted at the door, ready to offer our guests their gracious help? I can't say for sure how sound carries until the housekeeping tomorrow morning, but you understand. Writing materials, and plenty of firewood.”

Oh, yes. Widamia understood, all right. She particularly understood that she had left the Embassy building very much intact. “Yes. The reason I came... I'm afraid I can't carry Tullius' message,” she said. “I have one last thing to do, but then you'll need to discharge me. Dishonorably and publicly. And be sure to mention me by name. Say I was away from my post at, oh, that fort I got you, that ought to do the trick.”

“Fort Hraggstad,” said Rikke sharply. “Any particular reason, Auxiliary?”

“I wish I could tell you I burned down the Embassy,” laughed Widamia weakly, “but no. I worked the place over fairly well, but... the reason they're coming to Castle Dour... Legate, I left my shield behind.”

“They won't attack Solitude,” said Rikke curtly. “They'll make it hard on us, be sure of that, but they won't attack outright.”

“But - but they know an Imperial scout was responsible!”

“Doesn't make them any more prepared for war.” The Legate smiled blandly – and was that _pride_ she was regarding Widamia with, after she'd loosed Justiciars on her city? “Truth doesn't have much to do with the Dominion's tactics. Honor has no place at all. They'll do whatever they can get away with – no more, no less. Assassination's a concern, but then the Penitus Oculatus should be arriving tomorrow.”

“With respect... we haven't had a spy network since the Concordat. How can you know that?” 

Rikke only grunted and shrugged. It was enough that the Legion knew, Widamia supposed that meant, and never mind the method.

“Not only because we're doing perfectly well killing each other?” Widamia ventured, feeling as though she stood on a cliff's edge.

“No,” Rikke confirmed. But as Widamia parted her lips to speak further, she continued, “Now that you're assured of your place in the Legion, Auxiliary, Tullius does have a high-priority message for Whiterun.”

“Whiterun,” Widamia echoed hollowly. It was as though the cliff had given way. “Ulfric's really going to do it. He's really putting the High King bit above everything else he stands for.”

Rikke shook her head with a thoroughly humorless amusement. “I forget how new you are to Skyrim. No. He crossed _that_ bridge when he walked into the Blue Palace.”

“No!” said Widamia desperately. “Legate – I'm not finished. I have... a message for Windhelm. But it'll need your personal review.”

She handed over her invitation, and the Thalmor file on Ulfric Stormcloak. “I'll be waiting in the hall,” she said quietly.

She waited long enough to flick through _Disaster at Ionith_ and _Mixed Unit Tactics_ twice apiece. She began to worry that Tullius would return before Rikke had come to a decision, that Rikke would...

“Auxiliary,” came Rikke's voice just as Widamia was beginning to doubt it was forthcoming. The voice was – almost – as taut and controlled as it usually was; Widamia came back to the war room. “You asked about that Dunmer? His brother got in a brawl defending Roggvir's execution at the Winking Skeever. The Nord is dead, and the elf's brother not much better, and he wanted to get a good word in.

“I sent him to the proper channels before he could get further, but I don't need his testimony to know how it happened. It's always the same dance. The Nord defended Roggvir's sense of honor, and the Dunmer said Torygg was murdered – but Skyrim's customs say – but if the Grey Quarter is in accordance –” She shook her head, and there was an unmistakable bleakness in her eyes now. “Who struck the first blow? Whose blows were justified? Whose hand lies heavier? Are you with the Empire, or are you with Skyrim? _Are you with Talos, or are you with Tiber Septim?_ ”

Rikke laughed bitterly. “Insanity. An ever-building whirlwind of insanity, and to escape it entirely was cowardice pure and simple, but I thought I'd found the calm eye at the center. My decades of service. My duty to the Empire. Just like Tullius. Gods' blood, I _am_ Tullius... Have we _ever_ stood in the path of the Dominion, when the Dominion pressed us?” Her head sank into her hand. “Where was I when the raiders stormed Northwatch Keep?

Widamia kept her deferential distance and refrained from mentioning her own whereabouts on the occasion. Legate Rikke was a woman to be comforted by cold, practical _service._ “Do you believe Ulfric can be dissuaded?”

“If he means war on a neutral Hold, he'll follow the ancient forms. There will be time to make the appeal. It all depends on how far... how badly he means it. It need hardly be said,” added Rikke, now sounding much more like her usual matter-of-fact self, “that I _will_ make the attempt. Good work, soldier. I can't offer you accolades for this, but I don't think that's much skin off your nose. Now, go find Tullius. He wants a word with you.”

Widamia, seeing the brittle rigidity with which the Legate was holding herself together, made courteous haste.

A word, yes. A word of warning for the only man with both power and sense in all of Skyrim. Well, she _was_ headed in that direction anyway. If Ulfric really had drowned in his own bards' ink, if even Rikke couldn't reach him, well...

That still didn't make the assault on Whiterun a foregone conclusion. There was another angle Widamia had yet to play – and it might prove to be an honest one, at that.

**Author's Note:**

> Since the letter W has no place in an Imperial name and I realize it'd be rude of you to ask: she's named after a Colovian architect in the interdynastic period. She regards the interdynastic period the way English schoolkids regard the Wars of the Roses and is thoroughly disappointed that all the finest buildings she's seen portrayed are on the Summerset Isles, and she's never actually seen the name "Widamia" in a book, but nonetheless, that's what she's been told.


End file.
